How I Discovered My Rabbinic Ancestry

by Arthur Kurzweil

The biographer's name was Rabbi Israel,
and when I called him he was nice enough to suggest that we meet to
pursue the question. He also told me where I could get a copy of his
book. The next morning I went to Williamsburg to purchase the book from
the source suggested by Rabbi Israel.

It was the first time I had ever gone to Williamsburg. I have been a New Yorker all my life, however,
I was always
a bit afraid to go there. I had heard too many stories about the
Chassidim in Williamsburg who do not like outsiders. I felt hostile
toward them, wondering why they thought they had the right to look down
upon other Jews who were not like them. But my experience that first
time was just the opposite. I found the people on the street and in the
shops to be quite friendly and I realized that I had only heard the
sensational stories. I liked everyone I met.

When I arrived at the address given to
me by Rabbi Israel, a young girl answered the door and asked me to wait
a minute. She returned soon afterward and brought me down the street to a
grocery store and a young man who appeared to be her brother. They spoke
in Yiddish for a few seconds, after which she left. The young man, who
appeared to be about my age, was dressed in traditional Chassidic street
clothes with an apron for working. He brought me down the block to a
storage room. It was there that the books were kept. He looked for a
clear copy, brushed off the dust, and sold it to me. Together we walked
back to his store. Before we said goodbye I asked him why it was that he
had these books to sell. He told me that his father printed them. I
asked him why his father printed them. He answered me by saying that he
was "an ainicle of the Stropkover Rebbe." He used the very
same words that my mother's cousin Maurice had used when I first began
this journey.

There we were, both of us the same
age, both of us stemming from the same family tree, and yet we were in
two different worlds.

It then dawned on me that I was standing
in Chassidic Williamsburg with a young man, a Satmar Chassid I later
found out, who was a cousin of mine. He and I both were descendants of the same Chassidic
Rebbe (assuming my belief was correct). To be honest,
I must admit that I did not tell him I was also a descendant of the
rebbe. I was afraid that he would wonder why I was obviously not
Chassidic. In some ways, I wondered myself -- though I knew. Yet it was
startling to see how strange fate is. There we were, both of us the same
age, both of us stemming from the same family tree, and yet we were in
two different worlds. His line took him to Williamsburg, and mine took
me elsewhere. It was confusing and fascinating.

It was then that I remembered from one of the many conversations I had had, that there was a Gottlieb's restaurant
in Brooklyn and that the owners of this restaurant were
descendants of the same rebbe. I located the address and decided to go
there for lunch. The owner of the restaurant wasn't there, but his
son-in-law was, and we had a conversation, briefly, about the rebbe. Yes,
he said, it was true that they were from that family and the owner would
be back the next day. I was disappointed, but I was also excited by my
new possession -- the book by the rebbe and biography within it. I
called Rabbi Israel, the biographer, and made an appointment for Sunday,
just a few days away.

Those next few days were a blur to me. I
was so preoccupied by the whole experience that I couldn't think about
anything else. I simply counted the hours until I could see Rabbi Israel,
who would surely be able to link my branch of the family with the rebbe.
Finally, Sunday came and I went to Rabbi Israel's home. The rabbi was a
pleasant and kind gentleman who made me feel quite at home. He asked me
if we could speak in Yiddish and I was sorry to have to tell him that
I could not. He took me down to his basement where his library was and
we discussed my family. Again I repeated everything I knew, but nothing
seemed to match. Again the Usher was the same, but the dates were
obviously wrong. I felt I had reached a dead end. It appeared that with
all of the circumstantial evidence I had gathered, it was nothing more
than that. If the rabbi who wrote the biography of the rebbe could not
help me, then who could? I began to feel I was wrong from the beginning:
I shouldn't have made any claims, even to myself, without knowing for
sure. Now it seemed as if there was nothing more to do but go back to
thinking that my mother's family was a small one, that they may have
known the rebbe's family in Europe and may have even take his name, but
other than that there was no relationship. I would have to be satisfied
with the truth, and with a genealogy that went back no further than my
great-grandfather.